Here, within the walls which had
witnessed not only her own major acquaintance with sorrow, but so many
events and episodes of strange and, sometimes, cruel import--super-normal
manifestations, too, of which last she feared to think--she grew undone
and weak, disposed to let tears flow, and yield once more to depression
and apathy. The house was stronger than she. But--but--only stronger,
surely, if she consented to turn craven and give way to it?--Whereupon
she consciously, of set purpose, defied the house, denied its right to
browbeat thus and enslave her. For had not she this afternoon, up on the
moorland, found a finer manner of mourning than it imposed, a manner at
once more noble and so more consonant with the temper and achievements of
her beloved dead? She believed that she had.
On the hall table lay a little flight of visiting cards. Her mind
occupied in silent battle with the house, Damaris glanced at them
absently and would have passed on. But something in the half-deciphered
printed names caught her attention.
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